Eliza, duchesse d’Arcachon
Café Esphahan, Rue de l’Orangerie, Versailles
26 APRIL 1692
“YOU WERE EXPECTING SOMEONE DIFFERENT? It is all right, madame. So was I.”
This was how Samuel Bernard introduced himself to Eliza, lobbing the words across the coffee-house as he cut toward her table.
By arranging the meeting in a coffee-house in the town, as opposed to a salon in a château, Eliza had already obviated several days’ invitation-passing and preliminary maneuvers. Not satisfied even with this level of efficiency, Bernard had now lopped off half an hour’s introductory persiflage by jumping into the middle of the conversation before he had even reached her table. He came on as if he meant to place her under arrest. Heads turned towards him, froze, and then turned away; those who wished to gawk, looked out the windows and gawked at his carriage and his squadron of musket-brandishing bodyguards.
Bernard scooped up Eliza’s hand as if it were a thrown gauntlet. He thrust out a leg to steady himself, bowed low, planted a firm dry smack on her knuckles, and gleamed. Gleamed because threads of gold were worked into the dark fabric of his vest. “You thought I was a Jew,” he said, and sat down.
“And what did you think I was, monsieur?”
“Oh, come now! You already know the answer. You just aren’t thinking! I shall assist you. Why did you phant’sy I was a Jew?”
“Because everyone says so.”
“But why?”
“They are mistaken.”
“But when otherwise well-informed persons are mistaken it is because they wish to be mistaken, no?”
“I suppose that’s logical.”
“Why would they wish to be mistaken about me—or you?”
“Monsieur Bernard, it has been so long since I began a conversation so briskly! Allow me a moment to catch my breath. Would you care to order something? Not that you are in need of further stimulation.”
“I shall have coffee!” Bernard called out to an Armenian boy with a peach-fuzz moustache, dressed like a Turk, who had been edging toward them, impelled by significant glares and subtile finger-flicks from the proprietor, Christopher Esphahnian, but intimidated by Bernard. The garçon sped into the back, relieved to have been given orders. Bernard glanced about the coffee-house. “I could almost believe I was in Amsterdam,” he remarked.
“From the lips of a financier, that is flattery,” Eliza said. “But I believe that the intent of the decorator was to make you believe you were in Turkey.”
Bernard snorted. “Does it work for you, madame?”
“No, for I have been in the coffee-houses of Amsterdam, and I share your opinion.”
“You do not say that you have been in Turkey.”
“Do I need to? Or have others been saying it for me?”
Bernard smiled. “We return to our subject! People say of me that I am a Jew, and of you that you are an odalisque, sent here by the Grand Turk as a spy—”
“They do!?”
“Yes. Why?”
The good thing about Bernard was that when he said something jarring he would quickly move on to something else. Eliza decided ’twere better to keep pace with him than to dwell on this matter of her and the Grand Turk. “The only thing I can think of that you and I have in common, monsieur, is a predilection for finance.”
Bernard let it be seen that he was not fully satisfied with this attempt. He had a long, complicated French nose, close-set eyes, and a mouth turned up tight, like a recurved bow, at the corners. The look on his face might have been one of frustration, or intense concentration; perhaps both. He was trying to get her to see something. “Why do I wear cloth of gold? Because I am some kind of a fop? No! I dress well, but I am not a fop. I wear this to remind me of something.”
“I supposed it was to remind others that—”
“That I am the richest man in France? Is that what you were going to say?”
“No, but it is what I was thinking.”
“Another rumor—like that I am a Jew. No, madame, I wear this because it used to be my trade.”
“Did you say trade!?”
“My family were Huguenots. I was baptized in the Protestant church of Charenton. You can’t see it any more, it was pulled down by a Catholic mob a few years ago. My grandfather was a painter of portraits for the Court. My father, a miniaturist and an engraver. But God did not bestow on me any artistic talent, and so I was apprenticed to a seller of cloth-of-gold.”
“Did you serve out your whole apprenticeship, monsieur?”
“Pourquoi non, madame, for then as now, I always fulfill my contracts. My formal métier is maître mercier grossiste pour draps d’or, d’argent, et de soie de Paris.”
“I think I finally begin to understand your point, Monsieur Bernard. You are saying that you and I have in common that we do not belong.”
“We make no sense!” Bernard exclaimed, throwing up both hands and raising his eyebrows in dismay, mocking a certain type of courtier. “To these people—” and he shoveled his hands across the Rue de l’Orangerie at Versailles—“we are what meteors, comets, sunspots are to astronomers: monstrous deviations, fell portents of undesired change, proof that something is wrong in a system that was supposedly framed by the hand of God.”
“I have heard some in this vein, too, from Monsieur le marquis d’Ozoir—”
Bernard would not allow such a foolish sentence to be finished; he spewed air and rolled his eyes. “Him! What would he know of us? He is the epitome of who I mean—son of a Duke! A bastard, I’ll grant you, and enterprising, in his way; yet still wholly typical of the established order.”
Eliza now judged it best to stop talking, for Bernard had led her off into some wild territory—as if enlisting her, a Duchess, in some sort of insurgency. Bernard saw her discomfort, and physically drew back. The Armenian boy whispered up on slippered feet, bearing on a gaudy salver a tiny beaker of coffee clenched in a writhen silver zarf. Eliza gazed out the windows for a few moments, letting Bernard enjoy the first few sips. His guards had long since set up a perimeter defense around the Café Esphahan. But if she looked beyond that, cater-corner across the Rue de l’Orangerie, she could see deep into a vast rectangular plot embraced on three sides by a vaulted gallery-cum-retaining wall that supported the southern wing of the King’s palace. This garden was open to the south so that during the winter it could gather in the feeble offerings of the sun. The King’s orange trees, which lived in portable boxes of dirt, were still cowering back inside the warm gallery, for the last few nights had been clear and cold. But the garden was crowded with palm trees; and it was the sight of their blowing fronds, and not the faux-Turkish decor inside the café, that made it possible for her to phant’sy that she was sitting along some walled garden of the Topkapi Palace.
Bernard had settled down a bit. “Never fear, madame, for my father and I both converted to Catholicism after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. Just as you have married a hereditary Duke.”
“I don’t really see what those two have to do with each other.”
“They were, if you will, sacraments that we undertook to show that we were submitting to the established order of this country—the same order that we undermine by pursuing what you so aptly described as our predilection for finance.”
“I don’t know that I agree with that, monsieur.”
Bernard ignored Eliza’s weak protest. “Sooner or later the King will probably make me a Count or some such, and people will pretend to forget that I once served an apprenticeship. But do not be fooled. To them, you and I are as noble; as French; and as Catholic; as him!” and Bernard shot out one hand as if hurling a dagger. The target was a painting on the ceiling that depicted an immense, shirtless, muscle-bound, ochre-skinned hashishin with a red turban and a handlebar moustache raising a scimitar above his head. “And that is why they say Iama Jew; for this amounts to saying, an inexplicable monster.”
“As long as it’s just us inexplicable mo
nsters here,” said Eliza (as indeed it was; for most of the other patrons had bolted) “shall we—”
“Indeed, yes. Let us review the figures,” said Bernard, and blinked twice. “The number of invasion troops is some twenty thousand. Each receives five sols per day; so that is five thousand livres a day. The number of sergeants is, in round numbers, a tenth of the number of troops, but they receive twice the pay; add another thousand livres a day. Lieutenants receive a livre a day, captains get two and a half; at any rate, when you add it all up, reckoning dragoons, cavalry, et cetera, it comes to some eight thousand a day—”
“I have made it ten thousand, to allow for other expenses,” said Eliza.
“C’est juste. So why do you ask for half a million livres in London?”
“Monsieur, England is not so large as France, ’tis true; and yet it is much larger than some scraps of land in the Netherlands that have been fought over for months. Years.”
“Those places you speak of in the Low Countries are fortified. England is not.”
“The point is well taken, but the distance between the landing-sites in Devon and London is considerable. It took William of Orange a month and a half to cover the same interval, when he invaded.”
“Very well, I grant you that fifty days’ pay—almost two months—for this army comes to half a million livres. But why must every last penny of it be minted in advance, in London? Surely if the campaign progresses beyond a beach-head there will be opportunities to ship specie to the island later.”
“Perhaps and perhaps not, monsieur. I only know of this one opportunity, and seek to make the most of it. You make this more complicated than it is. I have been asked to tender advice on how the troops might be paid. You and I seem to agree that half a million livres is a reasonable, though perhaps generous, estimate of the amount that will be required. This is not too large an amount for the normal channels of commerce. I ask for as much as I think shall be needed. If half that amount is actually coined at the Tower of London, then I shall consider the transaction to have come off passing well.”
“The matter becomes complicated when the entire transaction is made to pass through Lyon,” said Bernard. “It is a large bolus for the Dépôt to swallow. If we could instead transfer it through a public market where there were proper banks…”
“Monsieur Bernard. You tempt me. For nothing would afford me such fascination as to sit here with you all morning and afternoon drinking coffee and discoursing of the peculiarities of Lyon and the Dépôt. Quite possibly we might have similar views on it. But as matters stand, Lyon is, by long tradition, France’s connexion to the financial system of the world, and it is through Lyon that we must send all of this money. It may be a bit quaint, a bit odd; but fortunately there are sophisticated houses there, such as the Hacklhebers, who have ready access to public markets in other cities.”
“I understand, madame,” said Bernard. “But the carrying capacity of the Dépôt is limited. France fights on more than one front. There are other demands on the credit of her treasury.”
“I have seen the silver with my own eyes, Monsieur Bernard. It was stacked in the hold of Monsieur le comte de Pontchartrain’s jacht in St.-Malo. This is merely an alternate, more prudent means of getting it to London.”
“And I do not question that, madame. But during wartime, the temptation will be strong to use that silver elsewhere—to spend it twice.”
“Now I perceive why it is that you are shunned by Court fops, monsieur. For you to suggest that Monsieur le comte de Pontchartrain would do anything of the sort is most rude.”
“Ah, madame, but I said nothing of that noble man. It is not he who matters in this case—for, last I heard, Monsieur le comte de Pontchartrain was not the King of France.”
“Then you are being even more impertinent!”
“Not at all. For the King is the King, and it is his prerogative to spend his money twice, or even three times, if that is his pleasure, and neither I nor any other Frenchman will say a word against him! It might, however, make a difference to the Dépôt.”
“Suppose the Dépôt was asked to adapt to these trying new circumstances, and it was found wanting, and in consequence, France had to get a modern banking system? Would that not be better for France, and for you, monsieur?”
“For me, perhaps—as well as for you. For France, there might be grave disruptions.”
“That is beyond my scope. I am like a housewife shopping for turnips in the market. If I go to my old traditional turnip-sellers and they ask too high a price for turnips of poor quality, and not enough of them, why, I shall go and buy my turnips elsewhere.”
“Very well,” said Bernard, “I depart for Lyon this afternoon to meet with Monsieur Castan. I might relay your challenge to the Dépôt and we might see if they have got enough turnips for you.”
“Monsieur, what is this word might doing in the sentence? You do not strike me as a flirtatious man, in general.”
“You have a house in St.-Malo, madame.”
“Indeed, monsieur.”
“It is said you are quite fond of the place—more so than La Dunette.” Bernard glanced in that general direction, for La Dunette was only a couple of musket-shots up the hill from the Rue de l’Orangerie. But all he could see in that quarter was another gaudy painting of wild Turks in action.
“You would like it, too, for St.-Malo is a place where Commerce rules.”
“I understand. For that is where the ships of the Compagnie des Indes call, or have I been misinformed?”
“Many ships call there; but if India is a particular interest of yours, monsieur, then that is what we shall speak of.”
“How can it not be of interest to us, madame? Have you any notion of the profits made in that part of the world by the V.O.C. and the British East India Company?”
“Of course, monsieur. They are proverbial. As is the perpetual failure and reincarnation of the Compagnie des Indes. You need only ask Monsieur le marquis d’Ozoir—”
“The history is all too well known. I am more concerned with the future.”
“Then truly you are a shameless flirt, Monsieur Bernard, for I can scarcely contain my curiosity any longer—what are you thinking?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nonsense!”
“It is quite true. All I know is that I look at the Compagnie des Indes and see—nothing! Nothing is happening. Something should be happening. It is curious.”
“You have scented an opportunity.”
“As have you, madame.”
“Oh—you refer to the silver in London?”
“Now you flirt with me. Madame, it is within my power to make this happen. I may have been re-baptized as a Catholic, but this has not prevented my maintaining any number of contacts with Huguenots who elected to leave. They have gone to places like London and prospered. You know this perfectly well, for you have filled the void that was created in the Compagnie du Nord by their departure. You buy timber from them in Sweden and Rostock all the time. So yes. I can see to it that your silver is transferred, and I shall. But it shall not be profitable. It shall not be especially convenient. Monsieur Castan’s credit with the Dépôt shall be over-extended for a time. I shall have to twist his arm. And I hate dealing with Lothar.”
“Very well. What could I do, monsieur, to show my gratitude for your undertaking so many travails?”
“You could direct your intelligence upon the strange case of the Compagnie des Indes in faraway St.-Malo. You, I take it, have no interest in this?”
“None whatsover, monsieur; the Compagnie du Nord is my sole concern.”
“That is well. You will supply me with your thoughts and observations, then, concerning the other?”
“It will be a joy to converse with you on the topic, monsieur.”
“Very well.” Bernard got to his feet. “I am off to Lyon, then. Au revoir.”
“Bon voyage.”
And Samuel Bernard exited the Café Esphahan as abr
uptly as he had come in.
His gilded chair was still warm when Bonaventure Rossignol sat down in it.
“I have seen Kings travel with a smaller guard,” Eliza remarked; for both she and Rossignol devoted some time now to enjoying the spectacle of the departure of Bernard’s carriage, his train of lesser vehicles, his out-riders, spare horses, grooms, et cetera from the Rue de l’Orangerie.
“Many Kings have less to fear,” Rossignol remarked.
“Oh? I did not know Monsieur Bernard had so many enemies.”
“It is not that he has enemies as a King does,” Rossignol corrected her, “which is to say, identifiable souls who wish him ill, and are willing and able to act on those wishes. Rather, it is that from time to time a sort of frenzy will come over certain Frenchmen, which only abates when a financier or two has been hanged from a tree-limb or set on fire.”
“He was trying to warn me about such things,” Eliza said, “but his squadron of mercenaries conveys it much more effectively than words.”
“It is curious,” said Rossignol, turning his attention to Eliza. “I know that you are married to a Duke, and share his bed, and bear his children. Yet this causes me not the least bit of jealousy! But when I see you talking to this Samuel Bernard—”
“Put it out of your head,” Eliza said. “You have no idea.”
“What does this mean, I have no idea? I may be a mathematician, but yet I know what passes between a man and a woman.”
“Indeed; but you are not a commerçant, and you haven’t the faintest idea what passes between the likes of me and Bernard. Don’t worry. If you were a commerçant, I shouldn’t be attracted to you—just as I’m not attracted to Bernard.”
“But it looked for all the world as if you were flirting.”
“As indeed we were—but the intercourse to which this flirting will lead is not sexual.”
“I am perfectly confused now—you are playing with me.”
The Confusion: Volume Two of the Baroque Cycle Page 49
